


Isildur's Heirs

by Sigrid_Jehane



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigrid_Jehane/pseuds/Sigrid_Jehane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What may have happened if Boromir had taken the Ring from Frodo.</p><p>This was originally written in response to a LiveJournal group prompt "What if one of the Fellowship had taken the Ring from Frodo?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isildur's Heirs

     The small hobbit was surprisingly strong. Boromir had to use far more force than he had expected to hold Frodo down. Because of this, he almost missed his chance. Frodo, panicked, tore the ring from the chain around his neck and tried to put it on. But Boromir was too fast, too strong. He wrenched Frodo’s arm up, tore the ring from his grasp, then leaped to his feet, delighting in the heavy smoothness of his prize.

     “No!” Frodo cried, struggling to his feet and trying to leap up and reclaim the ring. Without thinking, Boromir cuffed him hard enough to send him somersaulting through the dry leaves.

    _Isildur’s Bane_ he had named it during Elrond’s council. Now all Boromir could see was the Hope of Gondor. Hope for his people to live free, and without fear of the darkness and the creatures who came with it. The gold gleamed like a new dawn.

     Boromir was so lost in dreams of victory against Mordor that the rest of the Fellowship was almost upon him before he heard them. It was Aragorn’s voice, harsh and frightened, that penetrated, “Boromir! What have you done?”

     Startled, Boromir looked up to see the would-be king standing before him, hand on his sword hilt. Legolas, his haughty elvish features drawn in tight disgust stood behind Aragorn like a gilded shadow. Gimli and the hobbits were clustered around Frodo’s prone form.

     _Surely I didn’t hit him that hard?_ he thought – but Aragorn’s presence was too demanding to focus on anything else.

     “Boromir!”                                                                                                         

      Giddy triumph bubbled up in Boromir as he looked at the ragged man before him. “It is mine. Mine, as it should have been all along!”

     Had he been in his right mind, he might have recognized the sorrow and pain in Aragorn’s dark eyes. “It is none of ours, Boromir. It is Sauron’s. Only he can wield it. If you take the ring to Minas Tirith, you will doom your people. You will take the enemy into the very heart of your city.”

     “Yes, it is my city,” Boromir snarled. “You have never wanted anything to do with it. Now you don’t ever have to. Go back to your elf-forests, to your elf-maid, and forget you are a Man. Tell Elrond I will destroy the ring. After I have used it to destroy Sauron.”

     He slid the ring onto this finger.

     From a long way off he heard Aragorn shouting, saw him lunge forward – but he was distracted by the smoky landscape in which he now stood, and the sight of the Eye rushing toward him.

     “ _I see you. . ._ ”

     Gentle, sheltered Frodo had quailed before the terrible sight, but Boromir had lived all his life in the shadow of Mt. Doom and the baleful red glare of the Eye. “And I see you,” he replied, hatred coursing through his veins. “And I will come for you.”

     The Eye laughed, a hollow sound from the bottom of a well.

     Aragorn’s hands found his arm, his shoulder. A strong body wrenched and twisted for a throw. Taken by surprise, Boromir twisted off balance, but his heavy armor outmatched the ranger’s strength. Ignoring the murky darkness of the Ring-sight, he grabbed Aragorn’s shoulders and tossed him aside. “Don’t try to stop me! I’ll kill you!”

     Then he ran for the canoes, for the means to cross the river and make his way back to his city.

 

     A few days later, dressed in his finest clothes, his father looking on in swelling pride, Boromir stood before the council and nobles of Minas Tirith, holding the Ring up by its new chain. “I have found it!” he proclaimed. “The legacy of Isildur! Left to us, so that we, like him, might stand against the Enemy and defeat him!”

     Cheers filled the marble hall.

     Faramir, standing to one side, did not cheer. Boromir felt a stab of disappointment and hurt. His little brother had always cheered him, always supported him. Perhaps their father was right. Perhaps Faramir’s mild manner hid a scheming heart. Perhaps Boromir had gone too far, and Faramir could not stomach this particular triumph. Perhaps Faramir had hoped his older brother would never come back from the quest, then he, Faramir, would be the favored son at last. Yet another icicle formed around Boromir’s heart, and he tore his gaze away from his brother to the avid expressions of his true supporters.

     “For a thousand years, the house of stewards has preserved Gondor for the return of her kings! But those kings have never returned! The house of Isildur is broken! If any of that bloodline survive, they are not kings but cowards, hiding in the forests, shirking their duty to their people! I say it is time we were done with them! Time and past time!”

     More cheering. The sound was sweet.

     Boromir held the Ring higher. “By this heirloom of Isildur’s rule, I offer myself as king of Gondor, a king who will not run from his people, who will not hide in shadows. A king who will shed every drop of blood I have to defend our people and defeat our Enemy! What say you, men of Gondor? Will you have me!”

     The cheers were deafening.

     But Faramir, the traitor, remained silent. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

 

 

     Boromir lit the beacon fire, summoning aid from Rohan.

     None came.

     It was rumored that Theoden was near death, that his son was already dead, and his nephew – apparently as great a traitor as Faramir – had been driven from Eddoras by the king’s faithful steward, who had dared to enforce the king’s proclamation of exile against the strong and treacherous young man. The royal house of the Horse Lords was crumbling. Its only bulwark was the king’s niece, who was rumored to be both fair and brave. Boromir crafted a letter, entrusted it to a faithful lord, and sent him to Eddoras.

     Once he had defeated Sauron, he would pay court to the Lady Eowyn, wed her, and combine the two great kingdoms of Man under his rule.

 

     It would have been better if Rohan had ridden alongside them, but Boromir did not fear Sauron, did not fear the mass of orcs behind the great Black Gates. He, Boromir, was in possession of the Ring. Not Sauron. Sauron would fall as he had fallen before, and Boromir would be the savior of his people.

    But it was not Sauron who was waiting to confront him at the Gate. It was Aragorn, with Legolas again standing shadow-like behind him. The ragtag pair stood a quarter mile out from the Gate. It would have been easy to simply ride around them, to ride over them, but Boromir could not ignore the silent challenge of Aragorn’s presence. He signaled a halt and trotted forward to meet his one-time companion.

     “What are you doing here, Aragorn?”

     “Boromir. Please. Do not do this. It will mean the end for Gondor.”

     “When have you ever cared for Gondor?”

      Aragorn flinched, but his voice was steady as he replied, “I have always honored Gondor. If I stayed away, it was because I feared what might happen if one of Isildur’s blood were to return there.”

     “Well you don’t need to fear it anymore, for there is no need for you to return. I am Isildur’s heir – in duty, if not in blood. Do not think you can come now and claim my throne.”

     “I do not seek the throne, Boromir. I seek only to prevent this battle, one which you can not win.” Aragorn’s quiet, gentle voice hardened. “I will not let you do this.”

     Boromir laughed. “You have no choice.”

     Aragorn said nothing. He took a step back and drew his sword.

     It was a new sword, Boromir noted. One which gleamed like mithril in the morning sun, with elvish script running down the powerful blade. “You are more elf than man, Aragorn. Go back to the forests and leave Men to sort out their own affairs.”

     Aragorn remained silent.

     “You’re a fool,” Boromir snorted, swinging down from his saddle and drawing his own blade. He did not want to fight, did not want to be distracted from his purpose, this morning – but he could not very well back down from this challenge. But it was ridiculous. His heavy armor and thick shield rendered Aragorn’s challenge meaningless. The ranger was fast and strong – but even his pretty new sword would not easily breach the steel of the armories of Minas Tirith.

     Frustrated and angry, Boromir struck first, without warning. Aragorn leaped gracefully out of the way, and his blade came down in a powerful sweep. Boromir got out from under it, deflecting the last bit with his shield. “You can’t win, Aragorn.”

     Aragorn said nothing.

    The elven blade swirled and thrust – and Boromir jumped back in shock as a rent appeared in his mail.

    “Bloody elves. . .”

    They battled on and on in the rising heat of the day. Boromir’s blade found Aragorn more than once, but never with enough force to stop him. Both men were wounded, neither would give way. The captains of Gondor had come forward little by little to watch the battle of their king and this strange, dazzling fighter. Beyond Aragorn, Legolas waited in uncanny stillness, only the white grip on his bow betraying the grief in his heart.

 

     _He should have gone down long ago!_ Boromir raged. Aragorn was tiring, but still fast enough to keep just enough ahead of Boromir’s sword. Boromir’s strength was flagging as well, and he cursed long and hard at the thought of spending himself on Aragorn when the Black Gate was just beyond. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice whispered that the ranger could have killed him several times, but had held back. Boromir could not understand why. Surely Aragorn realized that only one of them could walk away from this battleground.

     And then it happened. Aragorn seemed to be dodging a particularly fierce down stroke, but instead of moving away from Boromir, he went forward, past his opponent. As he passed, he dropped his sword. Boromir grinned in triumph – then felt a blade slide across the back of his leg. He crashed to the ground.

     Aragorn kicked the sword from his hand, then knelt beside him and grabbed for the Ring.

     “No!” Boromir howled, drawing his own dagger. He managed to slash Aragorn’s shoulder, but the Ranger twisted and disarmed him. The next moment, he had taken the Ring.

     “Legolas!” he gasped, holding the chain at arm’s length – and the elf rushed up to take it. “Legolas, get this to Frodo!”

     “But Aragorn, you are hurt.”

     “Get it away!”

      “No! It’s mine!” Boromir howled, thrashing.

     He had a moment’s glimpse of darkness rushing toward him, an impact, and then Aragorn’s fist sent him into unconsciousness.

 

     Aragorn straightened slowly, preparing to face the captains of Gondor, knowing that he would probably die in the next few minutes. He stripped the glove from his left hand, displaying his own ring of Barahir, the ring that proclaimed his kingship.

     “Men of Gondor!” he began – but got no further.

     The Eye had seen the Ring at its gates. It had been content to wait, content to watch and enjoy as Boromir led his people to ruin – but now the Ring was again in the hands of one he did not control, and if it did not act soon, the Ring might disappear again.

     Screeches that began and ended far beyond Man’s ability to hear splintered the mid-day sky, and the shadows of huge wings blocked the light of the sun. The Nazgul were coming.

     _There is always hope_ , Aragorn reminded himself, as the army of Gondor – suddenly and inexplicably bereft of its king – broke and began to race back toward Minas Tirith.

 

     Miles away, Eowyn, Shield-Maiden of Rohan, called to the small company of Rohirrim that followed her, urging them to greater speed. When the beacon-call had not roused her uncle from his dreamy stupor, and Grima Wormtongue had insisted that no response be made, she had seized the opportunity for honor and for escape, and rallied a few Rohirrim to answer the call. More had flocked to her banner as she crossed the Mark.

     The Army of Gondor was retreating, but a silent whispering in her soul called her onward, onward to glory and to her destiny.


End file.
